In Pulverem Reverteris
by Evie Delacourt
Summary: A young Deryni woman, emboldened by Bishop Duncan's choice to reveal his Deryni heritage, makes her first tentative steps towards fully embracing her own. The unnamed narrator of this 1st Person POV short story is Sophie de Varnay, who will be featured in an upcoming story series I hope to post here soon. This story occurs on the Ash Wednesday after Dhugal's knighting ceremony.


_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris._

Remember, human, that you are dust, and to dust you will return -Genesis 3:19

**In Pulverem Reverteris**

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

I watched the priests before us, tracing the ashes upon the foreheads of the penitent. There were two lines, one short and one long. Two lines—a choice to make—just as yesterday the bishop standing at the head of my line had had to make a choice of his own.

His choice was why I was here now, waiting for my turn to kneel at the altar before him, and not standing before the priest at the head of the other line. Not that there was anything the matter with Father Shandon. I certainly had no reason to disrespect the junior priest, but I waited upon the bishop nonetheless.

Still, I was frightened. Not of _him_, but of my own choice. For I was going against a lifetime of hiding, to set myself in this line.

Not that anyone would guess my secret simply by my choice to receive the ashes by the bishop's hand this morning. There were others ahead of me, others I knew to be nothing more than what they appeared to be. Faithful believers. Humble penitents, here to observe the beginning of the Lenten fast. Simply human. But _I _would know my own choice. Such a small step, mayhap, but of such small steps were the beginnings of a journey made.

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

Alienora and I had quarreled, earlier. She'd chosen the other line, not wishing to be associated in any way with the man who stood at the head of mine, fearing him, neither knowing what he could do with his powers nor trusting that he wouldn't use them on the flock under his care. "You know what they say about _those_ folks!" she'd argued. "Even now, he could be taking over people's minds, corrupting them…."

I'd tried to reason with her, but it had been of little use. Now she stood in Father Shandon's line, some distance back, for her line was the longer one and moved more slowly. Still, if I turned to look at her, she would be frowning at me, urging me to join her.

I had stopped looking back, not wishing to be entreated back to the safer path.

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

It must have taken great courage for him to reveal himself, what he was, before the entire King's Court, before all gathered there, including his own ecclesiastical superiors, even though he'd long been in the King's favor, as he'd been in the favor of the King before him. Even though it had already been rumored, long before yesterday's Court, that he possessed powers forbidden to priests. Powers long forbidden to _any_ man, for many years concealed by those who bore such powers for fear of the stake.

_This_ bishop, it was said, was nearly burned at a stake once, by an Archbishop filled with hatred for our kind.

_My_ kind.

"Who knows what sorts of perversion he hides beneath his stole?" Alienora had ranted. "I knew something was wrong about him when I heard he had a son! Sure, he tries to _claim_ a prior marriage, but what man has a son he knows naught about for fifteen years, unless the lad be baseborn? And no witnesses? Of course, now that we know he's one of those damned Deryni, that explains all!"

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

It had ever been thus, the accusations against my kind, and I had ever been silent, as my parents before me, as their parents before them had been, not answering hatred with hatred, anger with anger, in part for fear of the stake.

We are commanded to love, though it be difficult at times. Still, I could not hate Alienora so much as I pitied her. For one thing, I knew no matter what other place she might hold in our lives now, she did not hold my father's heart.

"Why in God's name did you marry her, Father?" I had asked the first time she had gone on such a rant, not long after my sire had brought his new wife home to live with us. "Surely you must have known beforehand how she feels about our race!"

He had nodded, resigned acceptance on his face. "Aye. But there are benefits."

"_What_ benefits? A joining of lands, and a younger woman in your bed? I can't fathom what you even see in that shrew, after Maman's gentility and kindness! Is she worth the risks?"

He'd flushed, but fixed me with a stern glare. "Have you ever considered, daughter, that no one would ever give a second thought to suspect a Deryni and his kindred might be joined to such a woman as Alienora de Nore? And anyway," he'd added, not quite meeting my eyes, "she's barren."

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

That had been my father's answer to his own struggle with our Deryni blood. He had thought to answer the problem by suppressing the yearnings of the flesh, denying himself the pleasure of my mother's embrace during the time between her monthly courses when they believed her to be most fertile. If, he'd thought, he and my mother produced no offspring, there would be no furtherance of his line to have to hide our shameful secret. No children to fear for, that we'd be discovered, that we'd all be killed for the bad blood that had been our inheritance.

My brother's and my existence could attest to how well that solution had worked for them.

I was close to the head of the line now. The bishop's eyes were blue—as serene as a summer sky. He was younger than I'd expected; handsome, even. I carefully tucked the thought away behind tight shields, as one might demurely tuck unslippered feet under the hem of one's gown.

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

A tall, blond man approached the kneeler now. I recognized his lean form even from behind—Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn. He was one of the few of our kind who had dared to live openly. My father thought him a fool, to be so daring. I thought him courageous beyond compare.

My courage was a much smaller sort, I knew. Yet there would be hell to pay, once I returned home this day. For Alienora would not forgive, nor forget, my act of disobedience.

Still, if only just this once, I must make the harder choice, this silent act of rebellion—if rebellion it truly was—in honor of those who had made choices harder still. Those whose courage had shone all the more brightly than my small act of faith this day.

Men and women filed past me, leaving the altar, walking out of the cathedral, their foreheads smudged with ashes in the shape of the Cross. In the shape of the sign of Christ's victory over death, for the rites of Ash Wednesday are no mere reminder of our mortality, but also a reminder that death itself has been conquered and holds us in its thrall no longer. Just as Christ died so man might experience true freedom, so must a man live in such as way as to bring that freedom to others. Not all are called to sacrifice, but all are called to take up the Cross and follow.

I was afraid. Still, I was tired of running. Tired of hiding. Ready to take up my cross and follow also.

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es….." _

I took up my place at the kneeler now. The bishop started down the row, tracing the ashen sign on forehead after forehead, reciting the blessed words of reminder over each. I waited my turn, quietly making a silent petition to God for the strength to do what I must, though I trembled at the thought, my body even now urging me to flee, to take the safer course. But I could not.

He stood before me, blue eyes kind, as he reached his ash-stained thumb to trace the cross upon my forehead. I met his gentle touch with a timid mind-touch of my own, lowering my shields just enough so he could see me as I am. Deryni, like himself, though unlike him, so very frightened.

He paused very briefly, but in that brief instant I sensed understanding and compassion.

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris." _Remember, man, that you are dust, and to dust you will return. It was a reminder of mortality, but the sign the Deryni bishop traced upon my brow was a reminder of our hope. Yes, to dust I would return someday, as would we all. But not _this_ day. And not, God willing, by burning at a stake. One small step at a time, men and women of courage would do as they must, would make what sacrifices they must, would take up their crosses and follow Him into the freedom, not only to live abundantly, but to simply _live_. The freedom to live without fear. The freedom simply to _be_.

"Thank you," I whispered as I stood to leave.

There was no vocal answer, but as I turned to walk away, I felt a gentle touch of blessing in my mind.


End file.
